The Ferber Method
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Dean's never been able to just stand there and watch while Sam struggled.


**The Ferber Method**  
K Hanna Korossy**  
**

Daddy didn't know a lot about babies. He knew about everything else, but Dean had decided it was Mommy who knew what to do with Sammy, and Mommy wasn't there. And Daddy didn't know.

Not that Dean really did, either, but he figured babies were pretty simple: they wanted to eat, sleep, and get their diaper changed. And Sammy missed Mommy, too; Dean could tell. That was why he cried all the time like he did—like Dean wanted to—and that was the other thing Dean knew about babies. You picked them up when they cried. Especially Sammy. He didn't like Sammy crying.

But Daddy wasn't picking him up. Maybe he didn't know. Dean was the one who reminded him sometimes Sammy was hungry or smelly. With Sammy's wails in the background again, Dean padded out of the room to find their father.

Daddy picked him up without paying attention, and sometimes Dean loved sitting in his lap, but this time he slid right off, tugged at Daddy's hand. Daddy sighed and went with him, all the way to the door of their room, where he stopped. Dean kept going to the bars of Sammy's crib, where the baby sat shuddering with sobs, looking at Dean with red eyes. Dean touched one little damp fist, wrapped around a wooden crib slat, and looked up at Daddy in expectation.

Daddy made a funny face and came in, over to the crib. But instead of picking Sammy up, he crouched down next to Dean, looked at them both.

"Dean, sometimes we have to let Sammy cry. That's the only way he's going to learn to settle himself down."

Dean narrowed his eyes at him.

Daddy's hand was heavy on his shoulder. "It doesn't hurt him, buddy, I promise. Babies just need to cry it out sometimes."

That was when Dean decided for sure that Daddy didn't really know about babies. He frowned, shaking his head, pulling at Daddy's hand. If he picked Sammy up, he'd stop crying. It was what they were supposed to do.

"Just let him cry, Dean. He'll be okay, I promise." Daddy pulled out of Dean's hold and went back to the living room.

Dean watched him go unhappily, not understanding. Sammy just missed Mommy. They couldn't make her come back, but they could make him feel better. Why wouldn't Daddy?

Lip wobbling just a little, Dean decided maybe it was because taking care of Sammy was his job. Mommy had said so before she went away. Daddy didn't seem to know what to do.

Dean did. Sorta.

He looked at Sammy again, absently patting the chubby fist, then up at the bed. The railing was always raised now, which made it harder, but he could do it. He let Sammy go and started to climb.

The baby stopped crying almost immediately, watching with hiccupping interest as Dean climbed to the top of the crib and then over, being very careful he didn't tumble onto Sammy. Once inside, he pulled the baby to him, curled up around him, and Sammy gave a tired whimper before settling against him. He was warm and soft and smelled like baby powder, and Dean didn't know how Daddy could have just walked away and let him cry.

"It'll be okay, I'll take care of you," he whispered to Sammy in the dim light, and he thought Sammy believed him.

Daddy didn't know about babies, but Dean knew his baby brother.

00000

He'd taken it easy on the first one, kindergartener and all. Mostly. He'd still made Josh Bilder cry, and then Mrs. Echols had found out and given him a stern talking-to. Dean had both eased up and gotten more sneaky after that, but Josh hadn't dared shove Sammy again, and that had been the point.

Ronnie Lawson had been next, in second grade. Still pretty young, his bullying mostly meant calling names and laughing at you when he found out you didn't have a mom. Dean had had to dry Sammy's tears after that one, and Ronnie had nearly gotten his head bashed against the school wall, but…sneaky. One well-placed threat—Dean knew just about every kind of threat there was—and Ronnie had clammed up and avoided the brothers Winchester with fear in his eyes afterward. Sammy hadn't even noticed, but Dean had been pleased by the success and learned from it.

By fifth grade, violence was totally acceptable, but Dean didn't usually need it. He'd added rumors to his arsenal, and public shamings, although threats still worked. Sammy never figured out why Jeremy Shoch had started sharing his dessert at lunchtime instead of stealing Sammy's, but Dean noted with satisfaction his brother's baffled delight at the change.

Chris Roorda had been the exception, a stupid seventh grader with a buzz cut who seemed unable to do anything smart like listen to Dean. He had required more…hands-on suggestions, and when the scumbag had tattled, had earned Dean a week in detention. That was when their dad had found out, too.

"Son, Sammy's not a kid anymore. He needs to fight his own battles with bullies," he'd told Dean as they were doing dishes that night, Sammy in his room studying.

"Yes, sir," Dean said quietly, but there were two faults with that he could see. One, Sammy was only twelve, not even a teen yet. If that wasn't a kid, Dean didn't know what was. And two, there was no need for Sammy to take on a candidate for juvie who was twice his size when Dean was there. Hadn't Dad been the one to drill the mantra into him, _protect Sammy_?

John smiled a little. "He'll be all right, Dean. Everyone has to go through this—it'll make him stronger. I don't want to hear about you getting into any more fights with Sam's classmates, understand?"

It was the only part of their little talk that was an actual order, and Dean took it to heart. Their dad never did hear about any other fights again. Dean had learned from his mistake, and the second time he went to go see Chris, the jerk didn't tell anyone about it after. Dean was pretty sure Sammy suspected, but he never asked and Dean never told.

Dad hadn't ever really gotten Sammy. Like that "stronger" meant "less innocent" in Sammy's case, and that was the last thing Dean wanted for him. He'd just wanted Sam happy.

Later, he would wonder if there were any bullies at Stanford.

00000

The crackle-snap of footsteps was loud in the otherwise quiet woods, and Sam turned wide eyes to his brother.

"It's okay, Sammy, that's just Dad. The footsteps are slow and heading away, right?"

Sam listened for a moment, then relaxed. He smiled at Dean, not even correcting the nickname despite the frequent recent refrain, _it's Sam, _and Dean returned the smile, nudging him with an elbow to keep going. Sam walked just ahead of him, close enough to yank back at the first sign of trouble, Dean protecting his six. The silence was oppressive, and he almost wished they could see their dad instead of just hear him walking away.

"D-Dean?" Stuttering was never a good sign but then, Sammy had only been on a few hunts with them in the last three years since John had started having him come at all. Of course he was still scared, and Dean sidled up a little closer to him so Sam could feel him right behind.

"Yeah, Sam."

"What if more than one of them come?"

Dean studied the foliage around them. "Dad said there was only one, remember? He'd know if there were more. And he's gonna kill it before it gets to us, don't worry. We're just backup." Just in case something got past John, but Dean doubted anything would. They might have been training for years now, Dean just starting to shoulder the weight of real hunts, but their dad only took them both along when the risk was relatively low and they were merely the second line of offense. Dean wouldn't have been worried at all if Sam hadn't been with him and quietly trembling with fear.

"But, Dean—"

"It's okay. I've got your back, right?"

Sammy threw him a grateful, if slightly queasy, smile. "Yeah."

"Okay, so, don't worry about it. We'll be back home drinking Cokes before you know it."

"Going to bed," Sam corrected. "There's school tomorrow."

Dean snorted, amusement rather than derision. "Yeah, whatever. Come on, shorty."

They trekked together in soft silence, Sam's curiosity eventually outgrowing his interest. He stopped to examine tracks, plants, and God only knew what else, while Dean slowed down for him and tried not to roll his eyes.

"Sammy, come—"

The bellow was unmistakably not human, and Dean's shotgun swung up before he even realized it, one step planting him squarely between Sammy and whatever it was that was coming.

"Safety off, Sam," he barked breathlessly.

He heard his brother comply, heard the gun cock beside him. Whatever it was was getting close.

Once he had a clearer direction, Dean motioned back for Sam to get down, and felt more than heard his brother belly under some of the brush behind them. Dean melted back, too, hunkering down by a tree to make himself more invisible and less of a target, close enough to see the enormous whites of Sam's eyes.

The ribbajack broke through the thicket and headed straight for them, a dark, lethal shape against the woods. Dean drew a bead on it, heard the soft rustle of bushes beside him as Sam did the same.

He fired. The ribbajack jerked but kept moving, and Dean hissed, "Now, Sam." Sam's gun joined him for the second volley, and this time it went down and stayed there. Dean held his shotgun poised and ready as he pulled away from the tree and crept closer to make sure it was dead.

He almost shot John, instead, as their dad suddenly crashed out of the woods after the adlet.

He cast Dean a grim smile as they examined the corpse. It was well and truly dead, and John nodded. "Good work. It doubled back on me." He glanced around. "Where's Sam?"

"Here, Dad." Sammy was just crawling out from the brush.

John's brow climbed. "Why didn't you back your brother?"

"He did," Dean said immediately. "From there."

"How many times did you shoot?" John persisted.

"Once. Dad, I had him on fallback in case I missed," Dean answered again, and drew his father's disapproving stare. It wasn't true and he kinda thought John knew it, but he figured correctly his dad wouldn't call him on it. Sam was too quiet behind him, but right now, that was what Dean was praying for. He wasn't up for an argument tonight.

John rumbled a halfhearted, "Sam, you shoot with your brother next time," giving them both pointed glances before turning away to look for tinder to burn the body.

"Dean—" Sam started softly behind him.

"It's okay," he cut back just as quietly. "I froze a coupla times, too, when I was just starting out. We'll work on it."

He saw the flash of gratitude cross his brother's pale face, a hint of something else on John's as he glanced up at Dean from a dozen feet away. Dean knew what he was thinking, had heard it again just the other night: _he has to learn sometime, you can't protect him forever_. But Dean had even older orders to do just that, and they came from the only person who had ever superceded Dad.

If anyone was confused about priorities here, it wasn't Dean. He knew his job.

00000

The weirdest stuff still set him off. Which made it a little hard to plan for.

This time it was chocolate chip cookies, of all things. The thick, chocolate-studded treats were for some kind of fund-raiser the local Girl Scout troop was running, bagged on the counter with little curly ribbons tying them off. They had been exactly like what Dean remembered Sam loving as a kid, and it was a no-brainer to toss a couple in with the sandwiches Dean was buying for them. Sammy had lost too much weight since they'd hit the road again, and needed some fattening up. Dean wasn't above catering to his sweet tooth to do it, either. Getting back into shape could wait.

Sam had nearly finished his sandwich before Dean pulled out his prize, beaming. Fresh-baked cookies in a gas station mini-mart was no small find, and he was prepared to wax poetic about the treasure he'd acquired.

Until Sam stopped chewing at the sight of the cookies, the blood visibly draining from his face. A few seconds later, he was lunging for the Impala's door.

Thank God they'd parked on the side of the road for lunch. By the time Dean stumbled out and around the car, Sam was on his knees wholeheartedly throwing up everything he'd ever eaten in his life. The half-digested sandwich pieces were particularly disgusting, and Dean grimaced and turned away with a mental note to review the _chew before swallowing _lesson with his little brother.

His little brother. Who had tears streaming out his eyes as he retched and hurled, and Dean kind of doubted it was from the violence of his body's reaction.

He was an old hand at this, at least, from a dozen childhood illnesses. So what if the packaging had gotten a lot taller and bigger? Sam's forehead still fit into his hand, his stomach slowly settling and untensing under the pressure of Dean's hand. Pretty soon, Sammy was going limp, and he conformed just fine against Dean, too, hair tickling his chin as it always had.

"Bad ham?" he asked lightly, inviting Sam to tell him as much as he was ready for. It had been clearly the cookies, not the sandwich, and Dean had an idea just what sort of memories they'd evoked if not the details, because he was starting to get used to the flinches, the broken sadness that would creep over Sam at random words and sights: curly blonde hair, art supplies, Ally McBeal, frickin' _goldfish_. They were like invisible landmines, just waiting for Dean to accidentally step on one so it could blow up in his face.

Sam's head shook heavily. He made a clumsy attempt to free himself that, had Dean let him go, would have landed him in the puddle of lunch remains that was way too close beside them. So Dean didn't let go, holding him a minute longer until Sam pulled himself together more.

The key to not let it devolve into a chick flick was attitude, and Dean kept it casual, as if they weren't sitting beside the road in the gravel with him actually hugging his big little brother. "The bread?" Dean continued. "Oh, dude, the mayo, right? I bet it went bad. I mean, what's mayo made from, anyway? It's not a vegetable like ketchup, right? I remember the time you ate that BLT that had been sitting in the car all day and the—" Hmm, maybe not the best memory to bring up just then, as it also involved copious amounts of vomit. "Now mustard, that—"

"It's a fruit," Sam mumbled against his shirt.

Dean's eyebrows rose. "Mustard's a fruit?"

"Ketchup." Sam pushed himself up slowly, and this time he actually seemed to show some coordination, so Dean released him and sat back on his heels and to just watch.

"Tomatoes? Seriously?"

"Berry," Sam said, wiping his hand across his mouth and grimacing at the evidence of his stomach's rebellion. His eyes met Dean's tangentially, like full contact would hurt too much. "Jess made me cookies. The night…"

"Oh." Worse than he'd thought, even. Nothing like a sensory memory attached to smoke and heat and seeing your girlfriend burn to death on the ceiling. Dean made a mental note to avoid Mrs. Field's, chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream, and the whole town of Hershey, Pennsylvania. He dug out his handkerchief as Sam wiped his mouth again, trying not to grimace as it was put into use and handed back to him. He shoved it subtly under the car and got to his feet. "Fine, we'll stick with broccoli from now on. Even if you ralph that up, no great loss there and—hey, that's a vegetable, right?"

Sam's mouth twitched even though he looked really tired. He didn't even protest when Dean helped him up. "Yes, it's a vegetable. Although, I'm impressed you even know what broccoli is, man."

"I eat vegetables," Dean protested. He shoved Sam back into the car, retrieving a bottle of water for him. He waited until Sam rinsed and spit and wearily nodded, then jogged around to the driver's side, continuing as he slid in, "Corn pudding, lettuce on burgers, tomato sauce on—oh, yeah, fruit. Never mind."

Sam still looked miserable, but he didn't look like he was breaking under it. Dean tossed his jacket over him casually, cranked the heat up and the music down, and the guy would be asleep in ten minutes, tops. He'd have laid odds on it. Sam's eyes were already heavy as he muttered, "Fruit's good, too."

"Dude, we eat sherbet and pie and Jell-O all the time."

Sam's mouth pulled up again but he didn't answer, already more out than in. Turning his guts inside out always did that to him.

Dean rolled the window down partway as they drove, tossing the bags of cookies out with no regret. They'd pick up more food in a couple of hours, fill Sam and the car up. Dean would get him talking some more, maybe coax out additional details about Jess's cooking skills. There were bound to be some funny memories in there, too, not just painful ones.

John Winchester hadn't believed in sharing his pain, burying all memories of his wife—their mother—as he grieved. It hadn't helped, as far as Dean could see, and had left him with vague ties at best to the woman he still idolized. He wanted more for Sam.

And he never had been able to bear seeing his brother suffer.

00000

He'd let Dean fuss over the vampire-inflicted lump on the back of his head, the almost nonexistent bruise from where the brother-inflicted—but pulled—punch had hit him. Totally swallowing the irony of Dean fixing him up when his brother looked like the bad end of a bar brawl, lip split and nose bloodied and a shiner starting to purple around his eye. And that was just the damage Sam could see.

But emotional needs outweighed the physical sometimes, and at the moment, Dean needed to look after him. Sam got it, and sat and put up in silence.

"You'll live," Dean finally said gruffly, dropping away. He didn't go too far, and Sam took that as permission to return the favor. He pulled the kit close and then Dean's split knuckles, starting in on one with the alcohol.

Dean looked down on him in silence as Sam worked, and he could almost feel his brother's churn of emotion. Just a few hours before, Dean had practically thanked him over the car's roof in the middle of nowhere for Sam being his conscience. Now, he'd withdrawn again, pulling back into the shell he'd built up since their dad's death.

Sam didn't look up at him, didn't make it any sort of a challenge, just said quietly as he bent over the bloody hand, "I miss him, too. That hole, it's inside me too."

Dean's fingers curled a little but he stayed silent.

"And…it hurts."

Dean jerked, started to pull his hand away, but Sam hung on. There was a brief silent, mild tug-of-war, then Dean relented. His hand went lax in Sam's, and Sam kept cleaning.

He was on the second one before Dean's voice, low and rocky, came from above.

"Just let it go, Sam."

Sam tilted his head back, eyes that mirrored his own catching and holding. "I can't," he said gently.

Dean stared back at him with an opaque look, not quite understanding but not fighting him anymore, either.

Sam finished the rest of his ministrations without another word. With Dean it was usually show, not tell, anyway. But Sam clasped his shoulder on the way out of the bathroom, promising with a look that Dean wasn't alone, that this wasn't finished. That Sam wouldn't let him suffer in silence, whatever it took.

That wasn't how he'd been raised.

**The End**


End file.
